


Lessons in Fleeting Preservation

by mybelovedcheshire



Series: Fleeting Preservations [1]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bondage, D/s content, M/M, light Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Amis are all close -- some more than others, sure; some more intimately. But they're all deeply dependent on one another. Combeferre thinks it's fascinating how much Grantaire keeps to himself. Grantaire, oddly enough, feels the same way about Combeferre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Liz!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Liz%21).



“Grantaire?”

Combeferre cautiously inched down the disused hallway, one hand trailing along the wall like he was hoping to have something to grab when the floor gave out. He was leaving lines in the dirt — a sign that someone had been there in the last forty years — but he couldn’t imagine that it mattered very much.

This wasn’t an archaeological site. It was a death trap.

But it was the right address— or rather, it was the address that Grantaire always referenced when he referred to ‘his place’. But he couldn’t possibly live there. No one could live there. It wasn’t /safe/ for human habitation.

It was safe for pigeon habitation, Combeferre admitted, but he’d seen a number of those as he climbed the broken stairs.

And all the while he’d awkwardly called out: “R?” to the grime, and dust, and stillness — but only the creak of the floorboards had answered.

Common sense told him to give up and go home, and ask Grantaire about it the next time he saw him. It wasn’t worth the risk, because logic and the laws of physics dictated that the higher up he went, the less stable the house would be. The rational voice in his head was practically shouting its agreement.

But his curiosity rallied.

And as a firm believer in the cult of ‘What If?’s, he kept walking.

There was another staircase at the end of the hall — the last one, judging by the shape of the building. It was narrow, and short, with a closed wooden door at the top. That on its own was surprising — none of the other rooms had doors. Or if they did, they were hanging by the hinges.

One had plastic taped along the top of the frame, but he’d ran right past that and — with his characteristic calm — told his curiosity to go fuck itself for the time being.

But now there was a door, and a door was different — and he wanted to know why.

He kept his hand on the wall as crept up the stairs. He kept his hand on the wall as he knocked. He kept his hand on the wall even as that first, logical voice told him that this was a little ridiculous, and that it might be someone’s home, but it might not be Grantaire’s, and the original inhabitant might have left for the summer, or—

Thoughts of plastic and tape danced through his head, and he quickly shoved all of the blossoming ‘What if?’s to the side.

Pulling his hand away from the wall, he tried the doorknob. It wasn’t locked.

“Grantaire?” he asked a final time.

No answer.

Combeferre pushed the door open.

And found himself at the threshold of a room that could have belonged to no other person than Grantaire.

It was an attic — he’d been right about that. But it was a surprisingly spacious one, with exposed rafters, from which his dark-haired friend had hung a unique collection of things: shoes, with the laces tied together; dried flowers; heavy, winter-esque clothes; well-worn boxing gloves; and paintings.

There were dozens of paintings of Paris, dabbled on ripped paper, canvas, and what seemed to be bedsheets.

Smaller drawings had been scattered throughout the room, rolled up and stuffed in the mouths of empty liquor bottles. A red jacket had been hung reverently to the left of the door. There was one table — one dirty, scratched, and broken-but-fixed-with-tape table — and a small mattress on the floor by a wall. Combeferre couldn’t stop to think for all the things he was seeing. A radio with a coat hanger for an antenna sat on a windowsill lined with wilting plants. The windows themselves were dirty. Some of the panes had things written on them in marker — poems, perhaps? But there were names, and dates as well. There was writing everywhere, he realised.

Grantaire had even carved things into the wooden pillars that seemed to be barely holding up the roof.

But more than anything, it seemed to smell like Grantaire. There was that sickly, musky scent of mould and alcohol hiding in the corners, but tobacco and charcoal were the dominant aromas. And they were aromatic — they didn’t feel oppressive, or overwhelming. The tobacco lingered, while the charcoal seemed to be a natural part of the house itself.

There were no lights. The sun snuck in through the filthy windows, leaving elongated shadows of words on every surface. It poured onto the floor through a round opening closer to the roof — another window, Combeferre noticed with a frown. It had no glass, and no screen. It was wide open to the very hot summer air outside.

Because it was a vent. Combeferre shook his head, reprimanding himself for not catching that at the start. The shape of the roof drew the hot air out through the opening.

He straightened up and looked around again.

He was standing at the door of Grantaire’s home — Grantaire’s shadowy but airy, dirty but lived-in, messy but clearly well loved home. He found it fascinating.

But more than anything, he wanted to see Grantaire in it. Whether he was sketching at his table, or drunk underneath it, or curled up on the bed that seemed too small for him — the space was lacking without his presence.

Combeferre walked over to the windows with the plants. For some reason the floor didn’t seem to creak as much up here. There was an ironically rusted watering can on the ground, but it was unsurprisingly empty so he pulled a bottle of water out of his bag and silently doled it out. The first three gave off little bursts of a minty scent as the water splashed over the leaves. Satisfied, he turned towards the door.

Bright colours drew his gaze upwards.

He hadn’t seen the sprawling names before, because they’d been just above his head. But now ‘Feuilly’, ‘BAHOREL’, ‘Prouvaire’, and ‘Lesgle’ — spray-painted across the opposite wall in orange, red, green, and yellow — leapt out at him. Judging by the different styles, Grantaire hadn’t been the one to write them. ‘Grantaire’ was not painted with them, but there was a large ‘R’ scratched into the lintel.

A smile tugged at the corners of Combeferre’s mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s one thing to walk into your home and sense that something’s subtlely off — a new smell, or an object put down in not quite the right place.

It’s something entirely different to walk into your rat-trap excuse for a living situation and find your bed replaced.

Not missing. Not moved. Replaced. As in magically grown larger like some fucked up interpretation of Goldilocks.

And yet, that is precisely what Grantaire encountered as he kicked the door to his place open. It was the first thing he noticed. It wasn’t that he was so accustomed to the former arrangement that the difference nagged at him. There was just suddenly a new — brand new, if the crisp, striped sheets were any indication — fucking full-sized bed on the floor where his little cot cushion used to be.

He dropped everything he was carrying — paper bag with food, paper bag with booze, canvas bag with paper — on the floor and marched inside.

“What the fuck.”

He stared down at the bed.

“What the actual fuck.”

It was made. The sheets — when was the last time he’d slept with sheets? — were fitted properly, and folded. There was a large, cosy-as-fuck looking duvet smoothed out on top. There were two new pillows, to complement his one, which had been a ratty pillow case stuffed with clothes he couldn’t wear in the heat. The pillowcases matched the sheets, and he couldn’t help but shout.

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

A bird cooed at him from the rafters. Grantaire looked up sharply.

He didn’t mind sharing his building with birds. Sometimes he picked up old bread from a bakery he liked to feed them. But he was careful to do it two floors down, and on the other side — away from his place. His room was /his/ room. Not his room but /also/ big, not-toilet-trained birds’ room.

“Oi, squatter,” he called out.

The bird stoically ignored him.

Grantaire snagged a wrinkled, ruined sketch from the floor and balled it up. “Out!” he barked, and lobbed the paper ball at his visitor. The bird squawked and flapped its wings indignantly. “Look,” Grantaire continued, picking up another sketch. “I’m not this easy. You can’t just bring me some kind of fantasy bed and expect to be allowed to move in.” He launched the second paper ball. The bird took off— and luckily, because Grantaire’s shot hit the rafter right where it had been.

The pigeon soared out the window.

But it generously left something white and wet behind on his floor.

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Grantaire groaned. “Wasn’t the bed enough?!” he shouted to its fleeing tail feathers. He slapped a newspaper down over the mess.

“But seriously—” he added, talking to the dust around him. “Where the fuck did that come from?” The dust — regrettably — didn’t answer.

He went through a list of suspects in his head. Bahorel wasn’t in the country. Feuilly didn’t have the money. Bossuet wouldn’t have— would he? He glanced at the wall with his friends’ names. Bossuet didn’t really have the money, and even if he did — he’d have spent it on Joly. Which left only Jehan.

Jehan had the money. He had a good heart. He might do it? Grantaire frowned. He was the only possible suspect — but it just didn’t seem like him. It was one of the reasons Grantaire didn’t mind having him around so often— Jehan never said anything about the conditions of his home.

Except to yell at him about not watering his plants. But that was fair.

Feuilly mocked him because Feuilly had lived under cleaner bridges. Bahorel teased him because Bahorel had never been turned away from a house with sealed windows. Bossuet never said anything. He just smiled and gave Grantaire reassuring slaps on the shoulder. (“There, there— life sucks, and then you die,” he would say. And cue the bright grin.) Grantaire rolled his eyes.

No one else would have done it. No one else knew where he lived.

“/Who/ the fuck?” He hissed.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t Jehan. Grantaire knew it wasn’t Jehan, because he asked the little poet about it the very next day. He’d stopped by Joly’s and Bossuet’s flat to pick up a book, only to find Jehan curled up in their bed.

He didn’t mention it.

None of them brought it up.

But Jehan did deny having anything to do with /his/ bed. Joly and Bossuet both thought it was great (“Fucking awesome?!” “Strange, but fascinating.”) and made him describe its discovery in detail while Jehan called Courfeyrac to see if he knew anything about it. But he didn’t.

No one seemed to.

Feuilly was concerned in the way that Feuilly always was when someone’s personal space was invaded. It was a kind gesture — but really? No note? That was too unsettling.

Grantaire wanted to care about that. He wanted to be bothered that someone had come into his house, unbeknownst to him, and replaced his fucking bed. He wanted to feel threatened by it. But that just didn’t happen when you lived in attic with no lock on the door.

Or when your so-called home didn’t have electricity, or even running water on the days that the city rudely cut it off. (Once a month one of the city workers would realise the water to his ‘abandoned for the last twenty years’ building was on again, and would truck over to flip the switch. It always happened while he was sleeping, and then there would be no water for coffee or tea or a shower when he woke up. He’d have to stamp downstairs in pyjamas and the half-beard that cropped up while he was in his daily booze-induced coma and turn it back on again, and if that wasn’t just unnecessarily rude, he didn’t know what was.)

But the fact of the matter was — he didn’t care about any of that. But he did want to know /who/.

He found out four days after the bed’s appearance.

He’d heard someone coming up the stairs. It wasn’t Feuilly because Feuilly had the grace of a fucking cat. Bahorel thundered up like an elephant. Bossuet tripped every single time and left bloodstains on everything — which was a surprisingly effective deterrent to non-avian squatters. And Jehan just magically appeared without warning whenever he wanted.

Grantaire had plenty of time to scramble up off the (bare) mattress and get to the open door by the time Combeferre got to the threshold.

“/You/,” Grantaire grunted, tone laden with recognition.

Combeferre’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of confused concern. “Me?”

Grantaire pointed at his bed.

“Ah, yes. Me.” Before Grantaire had a chance to ask /why/, Combeferre’s pressed: “Did you not like the sheets, or…?”

Grantaire glanced over his shoulder at the bed, which had since been stripped of everything but one pillow.

The truth was that he had tried to sleep on them. He had. He liked the pillows, but having two felt weird. And then the blanket was comfortable as hell, but too hot. And honestly, he was afraid to sleep on the sheets because they were really clean and nice, and hell, the mattress was weird clean and new too, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that.

Other than put down newspaper. Which is exactly what he’d done.

He’d taken the fancy sheets off, and the nice blanket, and put them together with the pillow in a big plastic bag. They were tucked away in the safest part of his apartment — in a little niche near the ceiling where the roof never leaked.

Because he’d fixed it himself.

All his best shit was up there. The boxing gloves that Bahorel had gotten him for Christmas two years ago — that leather watch that Feuilly had fixed and painted — an épée that he used on the very occasion that he got to fence. Now Combeferre’s gift had joined them.

Grantaire scratched the back of his neck with his hand. He had a streak of blue paint running down the length of his arm.

“Why?” He very suddenly demanded, realising that he could still ask. “I mean— not that I don’t appreciate it. How did you even know where I live?”

If Combeferre was affronted by the question, he didn’t react to it. He skipped the first part and impassively answered: “You’ve mentioned it before.”

Grantaire, however, looked as confused as ever. “When?”

“Several times,” Combeferre told him. “Generally as a passing remark.”

“… which means I was shitfaced.”

“Anywhere from tipsy to wasted,” he admitted.

“Fuck me,” Grantaire muttered, dragging his hand over his face. After a moment he realised they were still standing at the door, and took a quick step back. “Shit! Sorry. Come in.”

Combeferre stepped forward. He was taller than Grantaire. He was taller than most of their friends — with the exception of Probably-has-giant-blood Bahorel. The door to Grantaire’s home was smaller than average, because it wasn’t supposed to be the door to a home. It didn’t bother Grantaire — it was still an inch or two above his curly hair, even at its fluffiest.

Combeferre, like Bahorel, had to duck quite a bit.

That at least made Grantaire smile.

“I’d offer you something to drink,” he started to say.

Combeferre pulled a water bottle out of his bag.

“Oh, good. Never mind.”

“Sorry,” Combeferre replied, smiling.

“No, it’s fine— all I have is water.” He shrugged. “Yours is probably cleaner anyway.”

“Why do you live here?” Combeferre asked.

Grantaire blinked several times. The bluntness of the question made it difficult for his mind to register. It didn’t help that Combeferre side-stepped a group of bottles on the floor to walk over to the bed and sit down. Grantaire cleared his throat.

“It just seems unnecessary,” Combeferre continued, putting his bag down as he perched at the end of the mattress. He’d pulled a piece of newspaper over to sit on, realising that Grantaire had been substituting newspaper for a fitted sheet, and trying to follow suit. “But you also seem to like it here…”

Grantaire wasn’t quite sure what to think. The muscle in his jaw was tight — he’d clenched his teeth at the word ‘unnecessary’, even though everything Combeferre had said was true. But at the same time, there was something about the way Combeferre was speaking — it didn’t feel patronising.

It seemed like it should have been.

But it didn’t.

It was inquisitive. Purely curious — like a child who didn’t quite get why the sky was blue or grass was green, or why it was dangerous to look at the sun.

To be fair, Grantaire hadn’t quite figured out that last one either. But he knew why he liked his home.

“It’s mine,” he replied, sitting down cross-legged in front of Combeferre. Combeferre slid off the bed so that he was on the floor as well. “Well, whatever— it belongs to the city. This building, the lot, and the one on the other side of the lot used to belong to this old dude whose son should have inherited, but the son’s this raging dickbag who stopped by with some contractors to talk about how he was going to demolish everything and build this fancy fucking condo…”

Combeferre listened attentively.

“But there’re a couple of guys living in tents in the lot— I told them they should come into the building, but… whatever. They like tents. The floor’s kind of rotted downstairs anyway. The old guy— I think his name was Beauchamp? He knew there’s a lot of people living on his property. Apparently he sometimes dropped off food and shit. Blankets in the winter, that kind of thing. It got back to him what his son was planning—” Grantaire grinned. “So he willed everything he had shelters around the city.”

“So,” Grantaire continued, “the city owns it, but it’s useless property. It’s not worth anything, it’s not in a good area. Nobody wants it.”

“Except the people living here.”

Grantaire snorted. “We don’t want it. …but yeah, okay. It’s what we’ve got. We don’t dislike it.”

“So you’re the only person in the entire building?”

“In the summer. In the winter a couple of families move into the basement. It’s pretty clean, and it’s warmer.”

“What do you do in the winter?”

Grantaire leaned back, bracing his hands behind him. “What d’you mean?”

Combeferre didn’t answer right away. When he finally did, there was a hint of concern in his tone. “There’s no electricity in here, is there?”

“No,” Grantaire replied, shaking his head. With Bahorel, he was proud of that fact. Even Jehan found it slightly romantic, in a frightening way. He’d spent more than one night curled up against Grantaire’s side while a thunderstorm raged overhead and an oil lamp flickered on the table.

There was no pride in his ‘No’ to Combeferre. There was nothing. It was just a fact.

“Do you have running water?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re comfortable?”

Grantaire stretched slightly, his back popping as he moved. “Yeah—” He paused to twist to the right, and then shifted, repeating the exercise to the left. “I am.” He exhaled. “I mean, I know that’s weird—”

“No,” Combeferre interrupted. “It isn’t— it’s your home.”

“Says the dude who walked into it uninvited, stole my bed, and replaced it with some swank store-bought shit.”

Combeferre smiled.

And Grantaire smiled back, because he noticed that when Combeferre did it — when he smiled with his whole mouth, and not just the corners of it, like he usually did — his glasses would lift slightly, pushed up by his cheeks.

“I can take it back if you don’t like it,” Combeferre conceded.

Grantaire looked skeptical. “And you’d return my cot?”

“No, I’d get you a slightly smaller mattress.”

“What if I want my cot?”

“It’s been humanely euthanised.”

Grantaire stared at him.

Combeferre pulled his glasses off and squinted at them, like he was looking for dust specks or scratches. “I burned it.”

“…you know I know you can’t see anything without those on.”

Combeferre shot Grantaire an attempt at a piercing glare while holding his glasses in his hand.

“I’m a blur to you right now, aren’t I?” Grantaire asked, grin spreading across the full width of his face.

“Am I actually looking at you?” Combeferre asked, mirroring Grantaire’s expression even though he couldn’t see it at all. “Because I honestly can’t tell.” He motioned in front of him. “There’s a you-coloured smudge here, but… it could be anything.”

Grantaire scooted a foot to the left quickly.

“I can see /movement/, you know,” Combeferre told him. “And I can hear you!” He slid his glasses back on.

“So basically you’re a tyrannosaur. You can’t see shit unless it moves, or you smell it, or hear it or something.”

In his mind, Combeferre protested. No one wanted to be the Tyrannosaur — Tyrannosaurs were incredibly dumb. …but it was an accurate analogy. He nodded. “Regrettably…”

“Hypothetically, if we ever needed to run away from you… we could just steal your glasses? You’d be stuck.”

Combeferre reached for his bag, pulling it over to his side, and dug his hand into the front pocket. He pulled out a glasses case that — to Grantaire’s surprise — was not empty.

“You have back-ups,” Grantaire noted.

“Back-up. Just the one pair,” Combeferre amended, putting them away again. “Not being able to find your glasses on the table in front of you after you’ve accidentally fallen asleep and they’ve come off is not the most distinguished experience.”

Grantaire covered his mouth with his hand to hide a snort.

“And people do steal them. It happens.”

“Why not just get contacts?”

“Do they make prescription contacts strong enough? I don’t want to walk around with chunks of glass attached to my corneas.”

“Probably not. It’s weird seeing you without glasses anyway.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Combeferre replied drily.

Grantaire laughed openly.

But the silence that followed went on too long. Their relaxed smiled faded, and Grantaire’s casual posture got stiff. He had questions he wanted to ask — to re-ask — that Combeferre hadn’t given answers to. But if Combeferre had deliberately avoided them, it didn’t seem worthwhile to ask again.

Combeferre wanted to listen. He wanted Grantaire to tell him more stories about the building — about the people who moved out during the summer, and in during the winter. He wanted to know more about Beauchamp — how Grantaire knew Beauchamp — if they’d ever met.

He was desperately curious about the entire situation because it was something new. It wasn’t something he experienced in his part of the city, in his small, but charming apartment. True, he had worked for everything he had. He’d bought it and paid for it — but that alone was fascinating. His lifestyle — his artsy, book-littered home, for example — was what he wanted.

Grantaire, at least to some degree, wanted this.

And Combeferre wanted to know all about his wants.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said, interrupting Combeferre’s train of thought. “For the bed. It’s huge— I don’t … I mean, maybe that’s a good thing. Bahorel stays with me sometimes. He’s a fucking rhinoceros—”

“I noticed,” Combeferre added, glancing at the wall above the door. “Not that he’s a rhino—… although, I had noticed that as well. I meant the—”

“The names— shit.” Grantaire pushed himself to his feet hastily. “Do you want—” He looked up at the wall just as Combeferre looked at him. “I mean, everyone else who comes over has put their name up.” He glanced back down.

Combeferre didn’t look away from him, but his expression was impassive.

“I think I have some other colour paint cans somewhere.”

“…do you want me to?”

Grantaire wiped his hands on his pants. “Well… you did buy me a bed. Seems fair. You like blue, right?

The corners of Combeferre’s mouth curled upwards. “Yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

Another raindrop hit him in the face, but he didn’t move.

Mostly because he couldn’t.

Combeferre’s shoulders sagged as he nervously watched Grantaire force bits of tightly-rolled plastic into holes in the ceiling. Water seeped down Grantaire’s arms as he worked, soaking into his rolled-up shirtsleeves and dripping off his elbows. Combeferre was standing just below him, gripping the ladder firmly with both hands because he — unlike Grantaire — had very little faith in its structural integrity.

Integrity, Grantaire had dismissively informed him, was for socially passionate people — not for buildings, or ceilings, or rickety step-ladders.

Which was a fair point. In a uniquely cynical, nihilist sort of way.

Still, Combeferre couldn’t help but tentatively suggest: “Shouldn’t you be doing this when the roof is dry?”

Grantaire tsked. “How would I know where the holes are?”

Combeferre sighed.

Grantaire’s home was ten years’ worth of too-far-gone to comply with even the most lenient building code. The ceiling had caved in on the other side of the apartment complex. Another bad winter and the whole place might actually be condemned. (Which — only naturally — Grantaire saw as something of an award, rather than a problem.) It made perfect sense, Combeferre noted belatedly, that normal, routine maintenance procedure wouldn’t apply here.

“Got it,” Grantaire said, grinning victoriously. He’d lived in his run-down little attic long enough to know how to care for it. He was familiar with all its quirks. Honestly, he wouldn’t have bothered with those holes — they were tiny — except that they were right above the place where his bed usually was. For some reason — in the last month, it seemed — he’d become quite protective of what he slept on.

It might have had something to do with his ratty cot cushion magically transforming into a brand new, full-sized mattress — but he couldn’t be sure.

“Come down now, please?” Combeferre begged. He was holding the ladder so tightly that his arms felt sore. Like everything else in Grantaire’s home, it had been scavenged from the street. And to be fair, it had served its purpose — but Combeferre was positive that it wasn’t going to support Grantaire’s weight much longer.

The dark-haired cynic smirked down at him. “Oh, calm down—”

The rung under Grantaire’s feet snapped.

If it had been Bossuet on the ladder, instead of Grantaire, he would have died.

Grantaire’s feet both hit the next rung with a loud smack before slipping off. His athleticism alone saved him — he instinctively threw his arms out as he flipped backwards to steady himself.

Combeferre was not so lucky.

He took a half-step back as Grantaire gracefully plummeted into him, slamming into his chest. Combeferre toppled backwards, and the both of them crashed loudly to the floor.

“Ow,” was all Grantaire could say.

Combeferre didn’t say anything.

Combeferre wasn’t sure he could move, actually. And conventional medical wisdom told him that moving was a terrible idea — so he didn’t. The smallest whine escaped him as he stayed sprawled out on the floor exactly where he’d fallen.

Grantaire had less respect for post-accident Dos and Donts. Initially he’d landed on top of Combeferre, but the momentum of his fall had thrown him off to the side. Laughing weakly, he heaved himself up onto his elbows.

He could see that there was a large splinter from the ladder’s rung sticking out of his leg — but he couldn’t feel it just yet.

“Not my best landing,” he joked, turning to look at Combeferre. “Sorry.”

Combeferre was staring blankly into space. He’d lost his glasses. He’d hit his head. He was almost positive he had a concussion. As generous as he was, he couldn’t quite bring himself to find the humour in the situation.

Grantaire sheepishly reached out and picked up his glasses from the floor. They weren’t broken. He knew Combeferre had an extra pair just in case, but somehow they weren’t even scratched. He gently tucked them under Combeferre’s hand with an apologetic murmur.

Combeferre thanked him and lifted his arms to put them on.

And immediately dragged them off again with an unhappy groan.

The very moment that he’d tried to focus his eyes, sharp, nausea-inducing pain shot through his head. His doubt vanished. He /absolutely/ had a mild concussion.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire whispered with a grimace, wishing he had something he could offer, like medicine or ice. “Can I get you a pillow?”

Combeferre grunted.

But it was a semi-good idea. The floor wasn’t comfortable — and a small, dizzy voice in the back of his head was afraid it might give out while he was laying there.

“I-…” He took a deep breath. “Can I just lay down on your bed for a minute or two?” Or an hour, maybe? As long as he didn’t fall asleep, he figured he would be fine.

Grantaire glanced at his bed, which they’d pulled away from the wall and into the middle of the room to save it from the rain. It was still bare — he’d never put the sheets that Combeferre had given him back on it. But it seemed rude to make him wait on the floor while Grantaire hastily dragged them out. He nodded, and then answered: “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Let me help you up—”

He scrambled to his feet. Combeferre tucked his glasses into the front pocket of his shirt and held out his hand. Grantaire grabbed his wrist and pulled him upright.

Combeferre swayed on the spot, but Grantaire didn’t let go of him.

“I can push the bed back over here—”

“No,” Combeferre interrupted. “I’m fine.” He couldn’t see and his head was throbbing — but he didn’t feel like vomiting, and that was a plus. “I just… need you to lead me to it.”

Grantaire dutifully helped him off the floor and carefully tugged him over to the mattress. “Here—” He stopped, and Combeferre cautiously checked a large, bright blur in his field of vision by tapping it with his foot. For a moment, Grantaire was grateful Combeferre couldn’t see him. He was struggling to stifle a smile.

Oblivious, Combeferre crawled into Grantaire’s bed and laid down.

Grantaire watched in silence.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the dripping of water into various bottles and buckets scattered around the attic. But then Combeferre spoke up.

“Am I sideways?”

Grantaire’s head tilted to the side slightly. “What?”

“On the mattress— am I laying sideways?”

“No?”

Grantaire blinked.

And then he realised why Combeferre had asked. Even though his head was right at the top of the mattress — he hadn’t found the pillow — his feet were hanging off the end.

Grantaire snorted so hard his nose hurt.

Combeferre sighed and shifted so that he was stretched out diagonally. Grantaire scooped up his pillow and crouched next to Combeferre, carefully tucking it under his head. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, fully aware that there was nothing in his home that would help. “Air headache pills? Air ice? …a real blanket?”

He swore he could see a faint smile on Combeferre’s mouth.

“I could try and kiss it better,” he offered, grinning again.

“That’s very kind—” Combeferre started to say, but Grantaire leaned in and kissed him on the forehead anyway.

Combeferre instinctively put his hands up, curling his fingers around the front of Grantaire’s shirt.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Grantaire slowly shifted down. His eyes were on Combeferre’s face. Combeferre’s eyes seemed to be searching for his in the dark haze hovering above him.

Grantaire gently pressed his mouth against Combeferre’s.

He didn’t know what he was expecting. He didn’t know why he did it. There was a weird silence — he was joking, and then he wasn’t, but it was still friendly.

It /was/ friendly.

But Combeferre’s hands had tightened, and /Combeferre’s/ mouth had hardened against his, and it was /Combeferre/ who kissed him back. He wasn’t harsh, but he was… devastatingly in control — pushing firmly against Grantaire’s lips and holding him relentlessly in place as they kissed until Grantaire’s head was spinning.

He pulled back, panting.

In the same moment, Combeferre realised what he’d done.

But it was far, far too late to take it back. Grantaire stared at him, open-mouthed, and muttered: “Holy shit.”


	5. Chapter 5

Combeferre dragged his hands over his face with a quiet groan. “I apologise— it’s…” He huffed. “Force of habit.”

Grantaire hadn’t moved. He hadn’t stopped gaping at Combeferre. “You make a habit of kissing people like that?”

“Yes,” Combeferre answered honestly.

Grantaire was figuratively and literally floored.

Drip. Drip drip.

He cleared his throat after a moment, but it hardly did any good. “I thought…” He shook his head. Combeferre’s eyes were closed, and his mouth had pursed into a frown. “I just assumed you didn’t…” Grantaire licked his lips. “Do anything like that.”

“It’s complicated,” Combeferre replied, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly before reaching for his glasses. But he stopped, pausing with them in hand just above his head. “What do you mean ‘you assumed’?”

Grantaire sat back, hands folded in his lap. He was curled up slightly — like Combeferre’s propensity for control, it was a habit was he was caught up in unfamiliar situations. “I’ve never seen you check anyone out. Ever.”

Combeferre didn’t reply.

“You do this thing where you, like… you stare at people, sure. But it’s not lewd or anything. Even Enjolras has checked out a dude’s butt, but you just dissect people.”

Grantaire stared down at his hands as Combeferre unfolded his glasses and slid them on. He winced — trying to stare through them still hurt, but it wasn’t as bad as before.

“It’s fucking creepy sometimes,” Grantaire added as Combeferre reluctantly sat up. “But cool, you know?” Combeferre rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you sure you shouldn’t rest more?”

He probably should have. He didn’t feel quite so dizzy, but that hardly meant he was in the clear. Nonetheless, he shook his head slowly. “I’ll be fine. You’re very observant.” He squinted slightly as he looked at Grantaire. Grantaire smiled. He was far more clever and aware than most people ever realised. It was a pleasant surprise to hear Combeferre say so.

“Thanks.”

Combeferre’s eyes narrowed.

Grantaire froze.

“Is that piece of wood sticking out of your leg?” Combeferre suddenly demanded.

Grantaire looked down. It was — he’d forgotten all about the splinter. Well, it was a bit more than a splinter, but it didn’t hurt.

Or it hadn’t been hurting.

He took a deep breath through his nose as pain crept up to his knee and spiralled down to his ankle. “Yeah,” he admitted, sounding strained. “Yeah, but it’s fine. I forgot it was there. Until you mentioned it.”

“Grantaire!”

Grantaire made a dismissive noise as he bit down on his hand.

Combeferre’s sound was incredulous and frustrated. He pushed himself up, off the bed, but Grantaire’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the leg of his trousers. “Hey, no! I’m fine— You need to sit down.”

Combeferre peeled his hand off and stared down at him. “You don’t even have hot water, do you?” His jaw tightened for a moment. “Do you have soap?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire answered. “I’ll get it.”

Combeferre had a hand under Grantaire’s stubbled chin before he could move, lifting his head up sharply. Grantaire’s eyes panned up the length of Combeferre’s body in slow motion until they reached his uncharacteristically stern face.

“Do not. move.” Combeferre instructed.

Grantaire nearly toppled over when Combeferre let him go, to walk over to a tiny side room that had once served as a utility closet, and now operated as Grantaire’s bathroom. There was a toilet with a broken seat, a dirty sink with a large basin, and a make-shift shower that Grantaire had — quite shrewdly — built by breaking one of the pipes and redirecting it with materials stolen from rooms on the lower floors.

It was impressive, if ramshackle, and Combeferre had praised it when he’d first seen it.

Now, however, was not the time. He grabbed a bottle of soap and a bucket.

In the main room, Grantaire was silent. Inside his head, he was practically shouting: ‘OR YOU’LL WHAT?’ at Combeferre’s back. It was just his nature — he questioned things. He questioned things too much sometimes, but in that moment there were no words to describe how badly he wanted to know what Combeferre would do — could do, even — if he disobeyed.

Combeferre cupped his hands under the water. It ran clean. It didn’t smell metallic. And to be fair, Grantaire had been drinking it and bathing in it for a few years now. It hadn’t killed him yet — so it had to be somewhat safe. It was even warm, which was better than nothing.

He drenched the bucket in soap, scrubbed it down with a metal brillo pad, and rinsed it out before filling it back up again. He grabbed the cleanest towel he could find and marched back to where Grantaire was sitting.

Grantaire had moved from the floor to the edge of his bed.

Combeferre said nothing about it.

Grantaire couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed.

Putting the soap and bucket down, Combeferre grabbed his bag.

“…why?” Grantaire asked with disbelief as Combeferre pulled out a pair of individually-packaged blue exam gloves.

“Are you allergic to latex?”

Grantaire snorted. “Christ. At least buy me dinner first, come on.”

Combeferre didn’t bat an eye. He pulled both gloves on with a clinical kind of grace that made Grantaire shiver.

“So, is this part of your schtick?” Grantaire asked, forcing himself to focus on being antagonistic to ignore the increasingly unpleasant pain in his leg. “These medical skills— it’s like part of your secret dominatrix thing?” Combeferre carefully tore the leg of Grantaire’s trousers down the side so he could tend to his wound without the added obstruction. “Are dudes dominatrixes or is that strictly female? It’s Latin, so. Dominator?” Grantaire grinned and lapsed into a terrible Arnold Schwarzenegger impression. “I am zuh Dominatah.”

Combeferre stayed silent. He very carefully removed the broken piece of the ladder’s rung from Grantaire’s calf, ignoring the way Grantaire’s hand had settled on his shoulder.

“Medical training so you can service your clients,” Grantaire repeated — but his bravado was slipping. His fingers curled tightly, digging into Combeferre’s skin. Combeferre glanced up at him. Grantaire offered him a short, dry laugh.

“Dominant,” Combeferre told him softly, returning to his work. “But most people are familiar with the shorter version — Dom.”

He wasn’t giving in to Grantaire’s attitude. His tone was quiet, but soothing. It was the most reassuring thing he could offer while his hands were occupied with warm, soapy water.

“I prefer Dom,” he continued, “but the semantics have never made much of a difference to me. And it’s not a secret.”

Grantaire was putting so much effort into controlling his expression that the genuine surprise he felt at hearing Combeferre admit that didn’t even register. “Yeah?” He asked dubiously. “Who else knows?”

Combeferre scooped water over his wound again and again. “Enjolras—”

“Of course,” Grantaire scoffed.

“Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly.”

Grantaire blinked. “Feuilly?”

It seemed fucking impossible to him that Feuilly would know something and /not/ tell him or Bahorel. Or both of them.

Combeferre explained: “I don’t care that people are aware of it. But I have to be the one to tell them— I don’t permit the people who /are/ aware to share the information.”

“So it’s a secret,” Grantaire replied.

“I’m not hiding it,” Combeferre countered, drying off Grantaire’s leg with the towel, but being careful not to put it anywhere near the cut. He picked up a packet of antibiotic cream — another treasure from his bag — and tore it open with his teeth.

Grantaire winced even though Combeferre was being incredibly delicate. “Which is why you haven’t told the rest of us. Me, Courfeyrac—”

“Courfeyrac can’t keep anything to himself.”

“—Bahorel.”

“You don’t need stitches, but you should really get Joly to clean this properly,” Combeferre told him as he tied off a bandage he’d improvised from gauze and a loose piece of fabric. “The only painkiller I have is Naproxen.”

“It’s fine. I have scotch.”

Combeferre very nearly rolled his eyes. Grantaire was lucky he wasn’t going to commandeer the bottle and use it as an additional disinfectant.

“So do you…” Grantaire paused, leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Actually, could you get that bottle?” He asked. “It’s on the table.”

Combeferre stood up — and fetched medicine and his water bottle. Grantaire sighed. But he didn’t resist when Combeferre offered him both.

Combeferre, meanwhile, circumvented his unfinished question by preemptively saying: “I’m not giving you any details. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, good,” Grantaire replied sassily. “My dignity’s in tact then.”

Combeferre frowned, though it was directed inward — at his own actions — instead of Grantaire. “I’m sorry. I—”

But Grantaire cut him off. “I’m not.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING** for D/s overtones and mild violence.

Combeferre met Grantaire’s playful blue eyes with the very same cutting stare that Grantaire had described earlier. It was impassive. It was analytical. 

It was clinical. 

It sent a jolt down Grantaire’s spine, but his smirk didn’t waver — it widened. He enjoyed being right. He usually was, but this wasn’t some depressing reality that called for a full bottle. This was fascinating. This was a side of Combeferre he hadn’t predicted. 

Combeferre didn’t blink behind his glasses. 

He said nothing because he lacked the information necessary to say anything. He couldn’t be sure that Grantaire was jesting, even if it seemed like the most logical explanation. It was possible that Grantaire was being genuine, because he did seem fairly lonely, and it wouldn’t have been ridiculous for his obvious, almost obsessive love for Enjolras to be a product of the hatred he felt for his own opinions — just a reaction, not a purpose. 

He had several theories, each backed by prolific evidence because — whether they were aware of it or not — studying his friends was Combeferre’s favourite hobby. It was one of many, yes — but his favourite without fail.

Grantaire broke the silence with a low, cheeky whistle. “So Feuilly /and/ Enjolras? Damn.” His smirk stretched into a grin and his clicked his tongue. “Get it, kid.” Combeferre’s mouth thinned. 

Grantaire’s tone was dripping with laughter, but it wasn’t malicious. It never was, unless it was directed inwards, towards himself. As much as he tried to hide behind his sarcasm and bitterness, there was a deep and ravenous curiosity in him. 

So, he casually stretched his arms out behind him and leaned back. “What is Feuilly even into?” 

“You know I’m not going to tell you,” Combeferre countered. 

“Can’t see him digging getting spanked. Enjolras, maybe? But not Feuilly.”

“Grantaire—”

“Are you any good at it?”

Combeferre stared at him, waiting for him to clarify. 

“At being a Dom,” Grantaire told him, over-enunciating his words in an asinine, patronising way that never failed to send Enjolras’s blood pressure through the roof. “I disobeyed you and you didn’t do anything to /me/.” He faux-pouted. “Got my hopes up for nothing, Combeferre. Rude.”

Combeferre was not Enjolras. 

More often than not, Combeferre felt that one of his greatest assets was that he was — in fact — not Enjolras. 

Grantaire’s taunting had no effect on him. 

But the fact that Grantaire was taunting him at all intrigued him. He wasn’t Enjolras — they both knew that. And yet, Grantaire was almost behaving as though he was? It was a perplexing, truly fascinating thing. 

He licked his lower lip — an action that did not go unmissed by Grantaire — and stepped forward. He crouched, dropping to one knee on the floor between Grantaire’s legs. In the same tone that he’d employed when he’d instructed Grantaire very clearly not to move, he said: “You haven’t consented to anything.” Grantaire opened his mouth, but Combeferre calmly continued. “If you had, and /only/ if you had…”

Combeferre met Grantaire’s eyes again. Grantaire stared back, enthralled. 

“Don’t think for a moment that I would allow you to dictate the timing or the nature of my reaction.”

A moment of silence passed between them — Combeferre dissecting Grantaire with his eyes, and Grantaire stoically holding his gaze. 

Until Grantaire replied, seemingly unfazed: “…so, that’s a yes, then?”

Combeferre blinked. 

In the same breath Grantaire added: “I can consent—”

“But I won’t,” Combeferre answered quickly, straightening up. “Consent is a two-way street.”

If the immediacy of Combeferre’s comment bothered him, Grantaire didn’t acknowledge it. He smiled the dry, unimpressed smile that he wore like a badge of honor at his friends’ little society meetings. “Is it ‘cause I’m too sexy? Look, if you’re intimidated by my suave, debonair attitude, I can try and rein it in. Sorry— that’s rein like a horse’s reins, by the way. Not the monarchy. I know how sensitive you guys can be about that.”

The barest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Combeferre’s mouth. “I’m sorry—”

Grantaire barrelled over his attempt at an apology. “I can’t even fucking imagine Enjolras as a /sub/,” he said with disbelief. “How does that work?”

“Keep guessing,” Combeferre told him bluntly. “You need to get that leg looked at.”

Enjolras was a terrible sub. Possibly the world’s worst. But that wasn’t information Grantaire needed to know. More importantly — that wasn’t information Grantaire needed to /guess/. 

Or deduce. Or whatever it was he was very astutely doing. 

“Make me, big boy.”

Combeferre snorted. Grantaire grinned. 

But after a quick, soft sigh, Combeferre asked him: “What are you into?”

Grantaire opened his mouth to answer — and immediately deflated. A million things ran through his head, and the cheeky little shit in his brain wanted to grab the worst, just to continue to fuck with Combeferre. 

But his curiosity — if that’s what it was — wanted to be honest, just to see what would happen. 

His mouth contorted into something vaguely resembling a duckbill as he struggled to respond. But he couldn’t. So he mirrored Combeferre and huffed. 

“You don’t know?” Combeferre was dubious. “Or do you not want to say, because if you can’t answer that…”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I like it rough.”

“/How/ rough?”

Grantaire looked up with a concerned expression. “Scratching? Biting? /Jesus/, how hard do you play?”

Combeferre didn’t answer. 

Grantaire’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “…hit me.”

“Where?”

“I thought I didn’t get to make that call.”

“And you’ll notice that I didn’t ask you how hard,” Combeferre replied. “/Where/?”

There was a humming noise in Grantaire’s head. He suspected it had something to do with the sudden tightness in his chest, but there was only one way to be sure. “Anywhere. I consent.”

He very narrowly avoided adding, ‘If you’ll allow it,’ in the most sarcastic tone he could manage. 

Combeferre seemed to be thinking. 

It was a dangerous situation. They were straddling a fence between friendship inescapably ruined and something both of them genuinely wanted to pursue — if only for curiosity’s sake. Neither of them were certain. Neither of them were particularly brave. 

But they both wanted an answer to the ‘What if?’

“I’ll hit you once,” Combeferre agreed. “If you want me to do it again, you have to come to the hospital with me immediately. If you don’t, I will go home, and I will do everything I can to forget about how you’re probably going to lose your leg to gangrene.”

“So counterintuitive,” Grantaire murmured. But he was silently impressed — both with Combeferre’s special secret skill, and with his wit. He knew the graduate student had a somewhat dry sense of humour, like the rest of them, but he didn’t witness it often — which was unfortunate, he noted, because he quite liked it. 

Maybe, if… 

“Grantaire,” Combeferre said softly. 

Grantaire nodded. “Deal.”

His heartbeat picked up just enough for him to feel it. 

Combeferre’s hand fisted around a short but thick length of rope at his side. It was refuse — the kind of thing Grantaire had scattered all over his attic — but Combeferre’s hand was in the air before Grantaire even noticed. 

The rope cracked against his cheek, and Grantaire yelped. 

“I also didn’t ask you what I would hit you with,” Combeferre commented. 

Grantaire had curled over, clutching his face with both hands. “/Ow/,” he whined, sounding slightly sour. “Fucking /OW/?”

Combeferre had returned to his usual calm impassivity. 

Grantaire let off a string of swear words so rude that sailors would have cheered. It took him awhile to sit up, and even when he did, he refused to move his hand from his cheek. He squinted at Combeferre — but his expression was astonished. “You— … /shit/!”

Combeferre blinked innocently. 

“You’re /that/ kind of Dom?”

“I’m not any /kind/ of Dom,” Combeferre answered, dropping the rope and brushing off his hands. “What I do depends on who I do it with.”

Grantaire couldn’t find a word to articulate the emotion he was feeling — so he spluttered indignantly. 

“Are you opting for gangrene?” Combeferre asked. 

“/No/,” Grantaire retorted. 

Combeferre’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You /want/ me to do that again?”

“No, you fucking assclown. I want you to take me to the god damn hospital because you just tried to break my fucking face!”

“That wasn’t trying,” Combeferre told him. 

Grantaire hissed and attempted to get to his feet. 

But the feeling that someone had lit a firework on his cheek wasn’t quite enough to overcome the reality that there was a decent-sized gash in his leg. He made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a whimper and flopped backwards on his bed. Combeferre pursed his lips. 

He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder as he stood up. “Come on,” he insisted, holding both hands out to Grantaire. Grantaire pouted as deeply as he possibly good as he reached up. 

Combeferre hoisted him up, carefully sliding under Grantaire’s arm so he wouldn’t have to put any unnecessary weight on his leg. “How’s that?”

“Fine,” Grantaire muttered. “You know it’s raining, right?”

“Are planning on melting?” Combeferre walked to the door, practically dragging Grantaire along beside him. 

“You are a sassy motherfucker, Combeferre. Why aren’t you like this all the time?”

“Because France gets far more than its daily recommended dose from you,” Combeferre told him. “My input is unnecessary.”

Grantaire grunted. 

He wasn’t really paying attention to what they were saying. 

Combeferre’s very warm hand had pushed under the hem of his shirt. His fingers, Grantaire was keenly aware, were played out across his side.


	7. Chapter 7

There was nothing out of character in Grantaire not paying attention, showing up late, or not showing up at all to one of the meetings at the Musain. The only reason he showed up at all — according to him — was to very deliberately be a source of opposition. No good government should be formed or political discourse had in the absence of honest conflict.

As if the eight other men needed his help. But they didn’t question it.

And Grantaire, in turn, said nothing about the flush on Enjolras’s face every time he said something contradictory.

But he’d made it to the table in the corner six days in a row in the last week, and in that time he’d managed to keep most of his attitude to himself.

It was Combeferre who was suspiciously absent.

Not that Grantaire was self-centred enough to assume it had anything to do with him. He had almost killed Combeferre the last time they’d seen each other, but come on? What’s a little concussion between friends? Combeferre was a better man than that. And it was so much less awful than that time Courfeyrac and Bossuet had set the backroom on fire.

But there was that nagging at the back of his mind. That quiet, dark fear that… well, maybe Combeferre /was/ avoiding him.

Enjolras did.

It wouldn’t be the most unheard of thing.

Six days and two major meetings missed, and that was just completely unusual. Enjolras hadn’t said anything. Feuilly had asked — Feuilly and Combeferre were close, Grantaire knew, but he didn’t know, and Enjolras only shrugged when the others piped up with: “Yeah, what the hell? Where’d he go?”

“He said he had something to take care of.”

“I bet he’s hiding from the Feds because he’s got overdue library books.”

“When have you ever known Combeferre to return a book late?”

“HEY, HE /STOLE/ ONE THAT ONE TIME,” Courfeyrac shouted.

Feuilly grinned. “And donated it to a different library the next day.”

“The Benét Wing wasn’t taking care of it,” Enjolras defended dismissively.

“Yeah. Which is why he /smuggled/ it out in his /shirt/.”

“They check your bags at the door.”

Grantaire stared distantly into his drink.

But amid the discussion, which Enjolras skilfully turned back to the original topic of a meeting of two major labour unions, it was Grantaire’s phone — his mostly broken, black shell of an excuse for a mobile — that hummed in his pocket.

His eyes narrowed as he pulled it out, because frankly, anyone who had the number was already sitting in the room. Even Bahorel was there.

The only person who wasn’t…

[text] Combeferre: Is the meeting still going?

Grantaire wiped wine away from his lips with the back of his hand and glanced up. The meeting was in full-swing. Knowing Enjolras, it wouldn’t end until midnight.

He reluctantly texted back.

[text] Grantaire: yea  
[text] Grantaire: might bail tho

He snapped his phone closed. Either Combeferre would march through the door, or he’d text Enjolras to tell him that he’d be on his way.

But he didn’t.

[text] Combeferre: I’m at the corner. Come meet me?

Bossuet’s head tilted slightly. He’d been watching Grantaire pound on the buttons of his phone under the table, and he saw Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline as he read. Grantaire looked up sharply that time, scanning his friends — scanning the room — staring at Enjolras for a full five seconds as he considered his options. Bossuet smiled and looked away.

Grantaire wrote back.

[text] Grantaire: downstairs??  
[text] Combeferre: Right at the corner, behind the building.

Grantaire stood up, and loudly, bluntly announced: “Well, as fun as this is… isn’t. At all.”

Enjolras’s eyes instantly darkened.

“There’s a bottle of whiskey with my name on it back at my place.”

“Because you wrote it there,” Bahorel told him.

“Thank you, Grantaire. Good /night/,” Enjolras replied with an annoyed glare.

Grantaire practically trotted to the staircase at the back of the room — started whistling as he opened the door — and left his idealistic collection of friends behind.

Combeferre was standing at the corner, under the streetlamp, exactly as he’d said.

“Am I walking into a movie from the 1950s?” Grantaire called out as he walked over. Combeferre smiled at him.

“I think I’d have to be carrying a gun in my pocket, or be desperate to kiss you, if you were.”

“So that’s not a gun then?” Grantaire asked as they turned away from Musain and headed down the street.

Combeferre laughed quietly.

“Where have you been?” Grantaire demanded, not giving him the chance to answer — or to let the conversation get awkward over his shitty joke.

“At a conference,” Combeferre answered. “Teaching methods, how to write better syllabi, and so on.”

“Yeah? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I told Enjolras, did he not tell you?”

Grantaire turned around and stuck his tongue out in the direction of the Musain. Combeferre snorted.

“He forgot, didn’t he?”

“Probably,” Grantaire replied sourly, spinning around again. “There’s a big labour union meeting coming up, and he’s freaking out.”

Combeferre made a quiet ‘Hmm’ sound.

“Yeah, why aren’t you… in there?” Grantaire asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You’ve been AWOL for a week, shouldn’t you be catching up?”

“It can wait.”

Grantaire licked his lips. He could taste the wine that he’d left behind — the wine that Bahorel had probably seized and finished off the second he’d stepped out the door because he’d stupidly forgotten to take it with him. He scowled.

Combeferre watched the melange of expressions play out across his face. “Is that okay?”

Grantaire looked up into Combeferre’s eyes quickly. “What? Oh— oh shit, sorry. Yeah, I was just thinking about…” His lips pursed in an awkward expression.

“…about?”

“…Bahorel’s gonna steal my fucking wine,” Grantaire admitted. “I wasn’t thinking. I just ran out. I left it.”

For a moment Combeferre said nothing. He looked ahead, dragging his eyes away from Grantaire to the cobbled street under their feet and up along the buildings built into the narrow spaces. “I apologise if I distracted you.”

“I don’t mind,” Grantaire answered.

Combeferre side-eyed him dubiously.

“…I don’t mind /much/,” Grantaire corrected. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t ask the question that he was desperate to — which was ‘/What/ were they doing?’ Were they dancing around something? Had Combeferre forgotten? Had he lost interest? Where the fuck was his own spine and why wasn’t he just /demanding/ an answer instead of holding back like a shaking kitten?

Combeferre exhaled quietly. “Well, I was thinking we could walk to my place. It’s not far.”

Grantaire didn’t reply.

“But now I’m thinking we could probably stop by a little store on the way. Get you a new bottle — since it’s my fault yours is gone forever.”

‘And after?’ Grantaire’s mind demanded.

“And after?” Grantaire said out loud, trying not to sound as desperately curious as he was.

Combeferre shrugged nonchalantly. “Scratching. Biting. I haven’t made anyone beg me for permission to come in a week.”

Grantaire put both of his hands in the middle of Combeferre’s back and pushed him in the direction they were walking, picking up the pace. “Well, get fucking moving, then!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING** for D/s overtones and bondage.

Grantaire had a bottle of wine in his hand when he walked through Combeferre’s door, but it was on the floor in a matter of seconds after he crossed the threshold. He was careful — he did put it down, but if he kicked it, or Combeferre knocked it over after that, he wouldn’t have cared. He turned the moment Combeferre closed the door and grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging him down for a kiss.

He didn’t catch Combeferre by surprise.

In his defence, very little did. He met Grantaire’s mouth. His hands dropped his keys and immediately cupped Grantaire’s jaw on either side. He kissed back, and he kissed hard, because they’d /talked/ about this. He’d made his position plain from the start.

Grantaire might not have realised quite what he was getting into, but he could handle that much at least.

Combeferre backed him up against the arm of the sofa. He knew the layout of his own apartment without looking, and his confidence as he stepped back, pushing Grantaire with every step, pressing him against the sofa was perfectly apparent. He shoved his knee between Grantaire’s legs, and only then did Grantaire pull out of the kiss with a quietly thrilled groan.

Grantaire’s hands tightened on Combeferre’s shirt, but Combeferre didn’t budge. He smiled. His head was bowed, and his lips brushed against Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Good,” he murmured. “That was good.”

Combeferre bit down on the curve of Grantaire’s ear and sharply raked his teeth over Grantaire’s skin. Grantaire instantly groaned again.

“Better,” he murmured. 

Combeferre slid one hand into the hair at the base of Grantaire’s neck — tangled his fingers in Grantaire’s soft, dark curls and pulled his head back slowly. Grantaire swallowed another pleased noise. That nagging voice from earlier was wishing he’d shaved.

If not that day, then at least once in the last /three/ days, but no, of course he—

Combeferre bit down on the side of Grantaire’s neck slowly and that voice died out.

It wasn’t gentle. It was slow, but it was sharp, and painful, and Grantaire shakily shoved his hand from the front of Combeferre’s shirt to his shoulder, where he gripped Combeferre’s arm roughly.

“/Jesus/ Christ,” he moaned.

“You said you liked biting,” Combeferre murmured.

“I /do/, I just—”

“Meant in the context of two people writhing around in bed, caught up in the moment?” Combeferre finished for him. He let Grantaire go completely and pushed him backwards, over the arm of the couch.

Grantaire fell gracefully, and he was grateful for that. “/Yeah/,” he answered, sounding vaguely defiant, despite being on his back in the cushions.

Combeferre smirked at him, and straightened his shirt. “That’s not really my thing, you know.” He moved, scooping up his keys to put them in a little bowl by the door. He picked up the wine that Grantaire had dropped — turned the lock, while he was there — and moved towards the kitchen.

Grantaire sat bolt upright and stared over the back of the couch. “Where are you going?”

Combeferre held up the bottle. “I assume you want a glass.”

“I can drink out of the bottle.”

He was very lucky he didn’t see Combeferre’s smug expression.

From the kitchen, Combeferre instructed, “See the blue chair? Go sit in it.”

Grantaire looked. The chair Combeferre was referring to was straight-backed and posh-looking, with smooth, wooden arms. He rolled off the couch — paused to adjust his pants — and walked over, sitting down.

“Sit all the way back,” Combeferre called out.

“I am,” Grantaire answered sassily — and then slid back all the way.

Combeferre stepped out of his kitchen holding one glass of wine. Grantaire watched him move.

Grantaire /admired/ the way he moved. All of their friends were different. They all had different postures, and different walks. Enjolras was very forward, very upright. Courfeyrac was slouchy, because he lived each moment just waiting for his next chance to stretch out on top of (or under, or next to) someone. Combeferre had a smooth kind of grace.

In some ways, he walked like Grantaire did. It was laidback, and — in Combeferre’s case — elegant. He wasn’t a man in a rush.

Combeferre set the glass down on a table next to Grantaire’s new seat. “Don’t touch it. Don’t move.”

“Yes, /sir/,” Grantaire replied, grinning.

Combeferre turned away again, moving over to the mantle to open a little, gilded box sitting in the middle.

Grantaire picked up the wine glass and drained it.

It was back in the exact place it had been by the time Combeferre turned around. Grantaire was still sitting back in the chair. He looked completely innocent.

Combeferre eyed the empty glass.

He seemed to be contemplating his options, and only Grantaire’s inhuman gift for obstinance kept the shit-eating grin off his face.

“Take off your shirt,” Combeferre demanded bluntly. There was nothing playful in his tone anymore — it was the voice he’d used a month ago, the first time he’d given Grantaire an order. It was the tone that said he wasn’t fucking around, and if Grantaire continued to, well.

Well, it was a little too late for that anyway.

Grantaire obeyed, readily pulling off the plaid shirt he wore, and the dark t-shirt underneath it. He dumped both at Combeferre’s feet. Combeferre picked the plaid shirt — a loose, too-big-for-him cotton button-up — and draped it over his shoulder. In his hand, he had four, black silk ties.

Grantaire drummed his palms against the arms of the chair. He was nervous. He didn’t want to own up to it. But he was.

Combeferre crouched in front of him, and as he did — as he took off Grantaire’s shoes and then tied his ankles to the legs of the chair, he methodically explained how he liked to work. He straightened up slightly, binding Grantaire’s wrists to the chair’s arms. “If it’s too tight, /tell/ me. Can you move your hands?”

Grantaire wiggled his fingers, but it was too tight to wiggle his wrists. “It doesn’t hurt though. It’s not cutting off my circulation or anything.”

“It’s not supposed to,” Combeferre replied. He stood up and moved behind Grantaire. “Tap the arm of the chair twice with your dominant hand.”

Grantaire laughed.

Combeferre gripped his hair again and yanked his head back sharply. Grantaire looked up with a wide smile and Combeferre impassively stared down. “You’re ambidextrous?”

Grantaire /grinned/ and tapped twice with both hands. “Piano, and I broke my right hand once. Just got used to using both.”

Combeferre made a mental note to ask him how he broke his hand when they were done. He pulled on Grantaire’s hair again. “Tap with either hand, but only /twice/ if you need me to stop. Understand?”

“Yeah..” He was hazy on the exact details, but wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of verbal clue as well? He opened his mouth to ask.

Combeferre — having twisted Grantaire’s plaid shirt into a rope — gagged him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING** for D/s content, bondage, biting, scratching, and smut.

Grantaire couldn’t grin anymore — but the feeling was still there. That sweet, enthusiastic elation at what he might experience was so very much there in the bright glimmer in his eyes. Combeferre was deftly knotting his own fucking shirt behind his head.

Never trust the quiet ones. Never.

But there was no denying his excitement. He enjoyed the rough tug of fingers in his hair, of confidence and expertise in every movement, more than he could have ever anticipated. He gripped the arms of the chair tightly and exhaled around his shirt.

Combeferre caressed him. He dragged his fingers up the back of Grantaire’s neck, brushing them through those dark curls with a sinful kind of sweetness that sent a shiver up Grantaire’s spine. “Can you breathe?” Combeferre asked with sincere concern.

Grantaire nodded. His shirt was already wet and slick against his tongue.

Combeferre draped his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders and whispered against his ear. “Do not forget your signal.”

Grantaire closed his eyes. He wouldn’t. He rested his head against Combeferre’s lightly, but he was fidgeting, and Combeferre couldn’t help feeling deeply satisfied. Anticipation was what made this so much fun.

Combeferre scraped his fingers over Grantaire’s bare chest. Grantaire groaned against the gag in his mouth and nuzzled Combeferre to show his appreciation.

Combeferre scratched him again — he wasn’t being gentle — and Grantaire squirmed.

Grantaire couldn’t see him. He could feel Combeferre breathing evenly — calmly — against his shoulder, but he couldn’t see Combeferre’s face, or his expression, or the focused concentration that he had no doubt would be in Combeferre’s eyes. He could feel the cold rim of Combeferre’s glasses against his skin, and wondered if he needed them now.

He couldn’t ask.

He groaned again as Combeferre scraped his fingernails down his abdomen.

That was when the biting started.

He learned in that moment to never say anything to Combeferre without considering the repercussions ever again.

Grantaire opened his eyes as Combeferre bit down on his shoulder. Combeferre’s hand still drifted in the direction of his zipper. He moved his hand slowly — like he was deliberately, knowingly being a fucking tease. But his mouth was a different story. His teeth scraped sharply over those sensitive places where skin touched bone. He bit down, leaving marks.

Grantaire panted around his shirt. His hips rocked forward. He realised, with some vague mix of lust and self-concern, that Combeferre knew exactly what he was doing.

Combeferre could probably name every nerve he was pressing his teeth into. Grantaire swore into the cloth between his lips.

Combeferre didn’t stop. As far as Grantaire was aware, he didn’t even hesitate. His eyes did briefly focus on Grantaire’s hands — on his white knuckle grip on the arms of the chair he was very skilfully tied to — but the lack of a signal only prompted him to push his fingers lower, under the waistband of Grantaire’s jeans.

Grantaire’s hips lifted. His spine curled, pushing his shoulders into the too-straight back of the chair, and his hips jerked forward, lifting off the seat.

“Sit back down,” Combeferre instructed.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and slumped back into the chair with an exasperated huff.

Combeferre pulled his hand back. Grantaire protested, but as the annoyed whine slipped between his teeth, Combeferre hooked two fingers through the belt loops on either side of Grantaire’s jeans and yanked him back into place.

“Do I really need to demonstrate that I’m not fucking around, or are you going to stop pretending you’re not clever enough to know that?” Combeferre asked quietly.

Grantaire went very still. One side of his mind was reeling from the word ‘fucking’ rolling off Combeferre’s lips. The other was stoically — stubbornly — trying to ignore the second half of what he’d said.

This wasn’t supposed to be about emotions. This was physical need.

‘Don’t do that,’ his mind insisted. ‘Stop talking.’

“Answer me,” Combeferre demanded. “Do I need to demonstrate that I’m not fucking around?”

He said ‘fucking’ with his lips pressed against Grantaire’s ear, as if he knew. As if he felt the sudden heat pushing up from Grantaire’s chest and radiating out across his face.

Grantaire slowly shook his head.

Combeferre bit down on his jaw gently. Even in his skeptic’s mind, Grantaire could have sworn it was meant to be affectionate.

Combeferre gracefully let go of the belt loops and reached for his zipper.

Grantaire breathed out slowly, but he was conscious of the dull pop of the button as it came undone. His jeans weren’t usually that tight.

He wasn’t usually that hard when he was wearing them.

He felt the zipper open just as smoothly, and tilted his head back.

Combeferre brushed the fingers of his left hand through the trail of hair between Grantaire’s navel and the top of his boxers. His right settled over Grantaire’s erection, cupping him through the denim.

It was too sweet, and Grantaire was too aware. A dark and familiar sense of doubt pricked at the back of his neck.

He inhaled, subconsciously sucking in his gut.

Combeferre pulled his left hand back.

Grantaire closed his eyes. The darkness amplified the warmth of Combeferre’s breath against his skin. It was a small comfort.

Combeferre’s fingers dragging across his neck was the real distraction.

On one side, Combeferre’s lips bruised that soft, stubble-free hollow just above his collarbone. On the other, Combeferre’s hand curled around his neck, holding him there, gripping him firmly — confidently, Grantaire realised — by the throat until his mouth left an unmissable mark.

His right hand didn’t move at first. It didn’t have to. Grantaire started to roll his hips, forcing himself to stay in the fucking chair as he’d been instructed, but fucking hell if he didn’t desperately want Combeferre to get on his knees and blow him right then and there.

Combeferre bit down on his collarbone roughly and Grantaire whined again. It wasn’t annoyed — it was needy.

It was surprisingly close to pleading.

Combeferre relentlessly scraped his teeth over the same places, treasuring every gasp — every whimper, every groan — that escaped the gag he playfully caressed with his left hand. Every minute that passed made Grantaire louder. Every bite left him less and less able to sit still.

Combeferre hardly acknowledged it. He let his teeth and his touch wander. Every so often his right hand would tighten — usually just as Grantaire bucked against his palm. Combeferre would push back against him, and Grantaire would pant helplessly.

When Grantaire started to flex his fingers, scraping at the arms of the chair, Combeferre slowly and almost reluctantly pulled back.

Grantaire let out a long, grateful sigh at the reprieve.

He really should have known better.

Combeferre moved away briefly to fetch something else from the box on the mantle. Grantaire shifted, struggling to shuffle his jeans off or down or something because they weren’t doing him any fucking favours.

He didn’t get very far, but he tried. 

Still, Combeferre enjoyed watching him struggle. He uncapped the bottle he’d grabbed and measured out a small amount of lube. The action caught Grantaire’s eye. He looked up, and even though he had a wet shirt stuffed between his teeth, chafing against the corners of his lips — his mouth felt dry.

His cock felt uncomfortably stiff.

His chest felt tight.

Combeferre looked him in the eye as he leaned forward, sliding his hand into Grantaire’s boxers to pull him free. Grantaire clenched his jaw to stifle the ensuing moan, but it didn’t work. The sound was barely even muffled.

Combeferre wrapped his fingers around Grantaire and pumped his fist slowly. Grantaire’s head tipped forward as he started panting again.

The rapid rise and fall of his chest was thrilling to Combeferre. Grantaire’s reactions pushed him to continue. The red marks dotting his shoulders and neck made him smile. Grantaire had been telling the truth — he did like it, the biting and the scratching.

He liked the ties, too, Combeferre had noticed.

And the commands.

And Combeferre absolutely wanted to see what else Grantaire would be willing to do. He wanted to know if Grantaire had limits — he wanted to know what they were. He wanted to see how far Grantaire could be pushed, and what it would take to get him to beg.

He tightened his grip just to hear Grantaire groan again.

Grantaire did — loudly.

And in the exact same moment, Combeferre’s cellphone rang.

Grantaire ignored it. He barely noticed it. He had other things on his mind — a warm, slick hand stroking his cock so slowly, so deliberately that he was going to break if Combeferre didn’t have some fucking mercy on him. But Combeferre — ever practical, and clinical, and impassive — didn’t ignore it.

He dug it out of his pocket with his left hand — his right still smoothly groping Grantaire — and checked the call. He absently brushed his thumb over the tip of Grantaire’s cock — Grantaire shuddered.

Combeferre gave him a look, and answered. “Hello?”

Grantaire made a choking noise.

Combeferre didn’t stop. He had no intention to.

“I was at a conference,” Combeferre explained while Grantaire writhed. Combeferre flicked his wrist. Grantaire bucked into his hand almost involuntarily. “I told Enjolras,” he added flatly.

So it wasn’t Enjolras on the phone, then. Grantaire would have felt relieved — if he had room in his head for any thought other than ‘Fucking fuck fuck FUCK.’

“I didn’t get back until tonight. I’ll be at Musain tomorrow, I can try and reason with Enjolras then.”

Grantaire whined.

Combeferre’s eyes very suddenly narrowed.

“Just a minute, Courfeyrac—” He pulled the phone away from his ear and hit a button on the screen. Which was just as well — Grantaire grunted and stared back at Combeferre with a desperate, frustrated expression.

“Make another sound,” Combeferre warned him unsympathetically, “and I’ll leave you like this for an hour.”

Grantaire didn’t attempt to reply.

He was beyond being a sarcastic shit just for the fun of it. There was no doubt in his mind that Combeferre would follow through with his threat, and he already felt like he was being pulled apart at the seams.

Combeferre returned to his phone call, tucking his mobile between his shoulder and his ear. “Sorry. I’ll be at Musain tomorrow. Tell Enjolras to go to bed.”

He was so unbearably calm as he played with Grantaire’s cock. He was utterly unfazed by Grantaire’s panting, by the desperation trembling in every inch of Grantaire’s body. He carried on talking to Courfeyrac as if it was the most common thing in the world, and every unaffected word he said — every casual stroke of his fingers — broke Grantaire down.

He was fighting to keep his begging voiceless.

Combeferre knew exactly what he was doing. Never giving enough to tip Grantaire over the edge, hardly ever giving him a second to breathe. 

Very suddenly Combeferre dug the fingers of his free hand into Grantaire’s hair and twisted his head sharply to the side — away from the phone. He started talking, started explaining something to Courfeyrac — something mundane that didn’t require much concentration, but that was just wordy enough to be distracting if the man he was destroying slipped up.

He gripped Grantaire’s cock tightly, shifting his hand up and down in a rapid, demanding pace. It was all about control. Grantaire was at his mercy, and he wanted Grantaire’s body to obey him.

Half a minute later, Grantaire came without a word — but his emotions in that moment were plastered across his face. His eyes were closed tightly. His back curved as much as he thought Combeferre’s commands would allow. His toes had curled, and if he’d had the choice — he’d have been biting his lip.

Slowly, as Combeferre straightened up, Grantaire melted into the chair. He was oblivious to everything but the liquid feeling of his bones.

Combeferre hung up his phone and tossed it behind him onto the sofa. He loosened his grip in Grantaire’s hair, but didn’t let go — he turned the still out-of-breath man’s head again, tilting it up so he could look Grantaire in the eye.

Grantaire looked dazed — but satisfied.

“Well done,” Combeferre murmured with a smile. “You’re very good at this.”

He could have sworn he heard Grantaire laugh.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes: _comme-ci, comme-ça_ is French for 'so so' or 'like this, like that'. Also, when I say 'Republican', I'm referring to the French revolutionaries, not the American political party. x3

“How’s that?”

“Harder.”

“Ask politely.”

“Push _fucking_ harder, _please_.”

Combeferre smiled as he leaned forward. Grantaire’s left leg was up against his shoulder -- his right was flat on the floor with Combeferre’s hand on his knee to keep it down.

“You don’t need my help to do this,” Combeferre reminded him, lightly trailing his fingers down the side of Grantaire’s leg.

Grantaire grunted.

He didn’t care. He wanted Combeferre’s help. He wanted Combeferre’s hands all over him, his body pressed into every curve, even if they were just stretching.

“You suggested it,” Grantaire muttered.

Combeferre curled his hand around the back of Grantaire’s left leg. “I said you should do yoga with me.”

“Yoga. Stretching. Whatever. My glutes are too tight for this.”

“That’s not a gluteus muscle.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes.

Combeferre slid his hand down, cupping Grantaire’s ass. “ _Gluteus maximus_ ,” he said, giving him a sharp pinch. Grantaire yelped, bucking his hips. Combeferre used the opportunity to shove his hand under Grantaire, dragging his fingers across another muscle. “ _Gluteus medius_.”

“Okay, _Doctor_ Combeferre...”

Combeferre straightened up. He let go of Grantaire’s knee, using his left hand to grab Grantaire’s elevated leg by the shin and pin it against his chest. His right, now free, smoothly slid up the back of Grantaire’s thigh.

“ _Biceps femoris_ ,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

Grantaire sucked in a short breath.

“ _Semitendinosus gracilis_.” His fingers skirted back towards the leg of Grantaire’s boxers. “ _Adductor magnus_.”

“You fucking show-off,” Grantaire groaned.

“You like it,” Combeferre answered. He brushed his lips against _Gastrocnemius_. Then _Soleus_. Then bit down gently at _Peroneus brevis_.

Grantaire all but purred.

Combeferre stretched Grantaire’s leg again briefly before shifting it back to the floor. Grantaire stayed still, watching Combeferre with silent admiration.

It’d been about four days since Combeferre had last gone home. He and Grantaire had lived on the comfort of Grantaire’s bed, and the occasional, little adventures they took out into the wet, grey weather. Combeferre had gotten them into the Louvre for free at one point -- despite Grantaire’s protests -- and had happily dragged him from floor to floor, with their hands locked together, just to listen to Grantaire complain about absolutely everything they could see.

And they wondered why American tourists had such negative impressions of Parisians.

They’d slid from room to room, pausing in front of globally recognised masterpieces. Combeferre would wrap his arms around Grantaire’s waist, holding him comfortably as Grantaire -- messy-haired and unshaven, who didn’t have so much as socks in common with the reputably-educated guides -- loudly criticised the nature of elite museums and sanctified art as a whole.

“You almost sound like a Republican,” Combeferre had teased.

Grantaire had smirked. “In the Republicans’ dreams.”

Even in a crowd, he’d been so comfortable in Combeferre’s arms. He had leaned back against Combeferre’s chest -- blue eyes still scraping over art that thought it should be loved, in a world that venerated it for its perfection and rarely its passion.

It was a bitterness that hadn’t lasted -- an opinion whose firmness faded into thirst and apathy. But Combeferre never let him go.

They had trekked back into the rain, to a corner market for bread and beer and whatever else they could scratch together on the change that Combeferre had left in his pockets, and had scurried back to Grantaire’s home to stay.

Sprawled out on his dirty wooden floor, Grantaire lifted his arm, reaching out to Combeferre. Combeferre took his hand, lacing their fingers together yet again with a soft smile.

“Comfortable?” Combeferre asked casually.

Grantaire made a comical face as he shrugged -- it was _comme-ci, comme-ça_. Combeferre laughed.

“Can I make it better?”

Grantaire pretended to consider. All the while, he was slowly, relentlessly dragging Combeferre forward until Combeferre had no choice but to put his free hand out, bracing it on the floor at Grantaire’s side, to keep from falling on top of him. Even then, Grantaire looked up at him with Courfeyrac-esque innocence.

Combeferre endearingly stared back down at him. “I have two ideas,” he murmured.

“Oh?”

“We could -- if you wanted -- go back to my house. I could shower, and shave.” Grantaire smirked. “Throw out the rotting produce on the counter. Get new produce and cook something that isn’t bread.”

“That’s a lot of effort,” Grantaire commented.

“It is,” Combeferre conceded. “Which is why Plan B is just to drag your _Gluteus_ muscles into that... comfortable and messy bed over there, and kiss you until one of us falls asleep.”

“That sounds like effort, too.”

“Good things require some effort.”

Grantaire squeezed Combeferre’s hand. He didn’t have to say anything -- Combeferre understood the gesture.

_They_ required no effort. They’d both noticed it. They were both aware of how comfortably they fit together. Of how, of all the things in common that they liked and enjoyed, their real connection was in the ease they felt at each others’ sides.

They were both deeply curious. They questioned things.

But more than that, they were _comfortable._

Combeferre shifted, stretching his legs out to lie down across Grantaire’s stomach. He folded one arm over Grantaire’s ribs, resting his chin on his forearm. Grantaire lifted his head to look at him.

Combeferre was studying the freckles just under his nose on Grantaire’s chest.

Grantaire reached up with his free hand -- his left was still tangled around Combeferre’s right -- and brushed his fingers over Combeferre’s cheek. Combeferre didn’t glance at him -- he closed his eyes and exhaled softly. Grantaire carefully dragged Combeferre’s glasses away from his face. Combeferre had no objections.

_Let’s stay right here_ , was their mutual, silent suggestion.

_I’ll stay comme-ci, and you stay comme-ça._

_Let’s just be for as long as we can._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that brings this lovely story arc to a close! Thank you so much to everyone who followed it on Tumblr for the last month and a half! And to everyone who's leaving kudos/comments now. C: I'm very grateful for your support, and hopefully we'll see more of these two dorks in the future!


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